


Messiah

by orphan_account



Category: Xenogears
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-01
Updated: 2005-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:12:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Billy has another tumble with the desert prince. Bart cannot resist a pretty priest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messiah

His feet led him to a door that had only recently become familiar to him—blessedly familiar, for he could not confide in just anyone. He knocked softly and was invited in; he shut the door behind himself.

Sigurd sat up on his bed, clad in only a pair of loose silk trousers, a book open in his lap. He smiled, serene, and patted the spot next to him. Billy crossed the room, grateful, and sat there; Sigurd tucked an arm around him, pulled him affectionately close. For a moment, Billy relaxed, warmed by their bodies together, and he remembered a time when the weight on his soul had been negligible. "What's wrong?" Sigurd asked, quietly, and threaded his long fingers through Billy's hair. Billy sighed and closed his eyes.

"Today," he said, quietly. "They—the crew. The Yggdrasil crew. They came to me... and they want me to take their confessions." 

"And you don't want to do it?"

He looked up at Sigurd, into the clear blue eye that could rake through any pretenses, could drag the truth out of him. "I told them... I would have to find a time and place for it." He lowered his own eyes. "I couldn't say no to them."

"But you wanted to."

"I can't take confession!" He sat up. "These people want me to act as a go-between for them with someone I know doesn't exist, whose religion is a farce. I can't do that. I don't believe in it anymore. How can I expect someone else to believe? How can I not tell them the truth?" Sigurd smiled at him, played with his hair.

"I think you need to talk to Jesiah," he said. "He knows exactly how."

Stricken, Billy stared at him. "That's it? Go talk to my father?"

"Not the advice you were hoping to get, was it?" It wasn't really a question; Sigurd knew the answer.

"Sig..."

"You know where to find him," Sigurd said, and smoothed Billy's hair, finally. "Shut the door behind yourself on the way out." He pointedly looked down at his book.

Billy found his father where he knew he would find him, where Sigurd had known he would find him.

* * *

Years of sitting with his back to various doors had gifted him with the uncanny ability to determine whether a friend or a foe was behind him. It was neither, this time; he downed a shot and poured himself another. "You lookin' for me?" he asked, without turning.

"Unfortunately," was the scathing reply. Billy could hardly remember his mother; but his acid tongue was all Racquel's. Jesse sighed.

"What is it, then? I'm not lookin' after Primera? Not lookin' after you? Not lookin' after me? Not behavin' in a matter befittin' my station—or yours?"

Billy pulled himself up to sit on the stool next to him and rested his chin on his hands. "How much do you have to drink before you start acting drunk?"

"It takes a helluva lot, but even then I could fire a hole through any one of your bullets before it's a hand's breadth from the muzzle."

"Whatever. Look, Sig said I should talk to you, so that's why I'm here."

Oh, hell. If Sigurd had sent him, then something was wrong. "What about?" He poured himself a double and stared at it a moment, waiting.

"The crew want confession," Billy said simply.

"So? Give it to 'em."

"I can't."

"Why? Knees broken? If you need a confessional, why don't you crawl into an air duct and let 'em talk to you through the grille?"

"I can't," Billy snapped, "because I can't lie to them about their absolution."

"Oh, that." Jesse drank his whiskey and sighed, and turned on his stool to watch his son. "And you want what, from me? To tell you it's all okay? To say you can still believe, 'cos faith is some wondrous intangible thing?" 

Billy sat up, blue eyes sparking. "No, stupid. I want to know what it is that you're supposed to know that you can help me with. If you're just going to make fun of me, I'll deal with it on my own." He moved to slide off the stool. Jesse caught his arm and lifted him bodily to sit there again.

"You've followed in my footsteps so far," he said, and met his son's angry stare. "Whether or not you like it, whether or not you meant to. You found out things exactly the way I found 'em out. And though you're a priest on top of being an Etone—"

"I'm neither, now."

"—you also got to be a master of people. You got to know how people think, how they feel. How they believe."

"So?"

"So," Jesse said, and leaned back against the bar, looked up at the ceiling. "You can't pull a rug out from under someone without knockin' him on his ass."

"I know that."

"D'you know what happens when one person loses his faith?"

"I've been there."

"D'you know what happens when a whole people loses its faith?" Billy was silent. "One person angry and hurt, Billy, is one person angry and hurt. A whole nation of people angry and hurt, that's war, and it's death, and it's destruction." He turned his head, watched Billy's expression. "Truth is what people believe, kid. If everyone believes in the Ethos' teachings, then the Ethos' teachings are the truth."

"But the Ethos was a sham."

"So's most organised religion."

"This isn't helping."

"You got the power to make a lot of people happy, Billy. You got the power in your hands and in your mouth and backed up by your guns and by what the Ethos taught, and even though you know the truth, you can't tell it to those people."

"You're saying I should keep going through the motions."

"Don't lie to yourself, Billy. You still believe in her, even if you don't believe in the Ethos." He watched his son squirm, and nodded slowly to himself.

"If she exists," Billy said, "why did she let the Ethos do what it's done?"

"Ask her," Jesse said with a shrug. "She'll probably just tell you that life ain't fair. It's just fairer'n death." He spun his stool around, faced the bar again, and poured himself another drink. He listened as Billy crossed the room, shut the door. Jesse sighed.

"Excellent philosophy, sir," Mason said, from where he sat quietly drying clean glasses behind the counter. Jesse looked up at him and smiled.

"I think I'll call it a night," he said.

"Certainly," Mason said, and inclined his head. "I'll clean up here and speak with you in the morning."

"I'll take this, too," Jesse said, and lifted the bottle.

Mason smiled. "Please keep in mind that his tolerance is low, sir."

"I'm not gonna forget that." He laughed to himself and sauntered out of the bar.

* * *

Sigurd did not look up when the door to his stateroom was thrown open. Only one person had the gall to do it; Jesse kicked the door shut behind him. "Take off your boots," Sigurd commanded, and turned a page in his book.

"Picky," Jesse grumbled, and struggled out of his boots.

"Last night it was 'fastidious'. Had a little too much to drink, have we?"

"Brought some to share." His duster fell to the floor, over the boots; the gun, however, was laid with precision on a table. He lay none too ceremoniously on the bed next to Sigurd, and offered him the bottle in his hand.

"A glass, if you don't mind."

"Don't wanna share my spit?"

"I simply don't like to drink out of the bottle, Jesiah, you know that."

"Yeah, well, I'll make a man outta you one of these days." He chuckled and fumbled for a shot glass, which he filled and handed to Sigurd. Sigurd swallowed the whiskey, turned the next page in his book.

"Why are you here?" he asked, and handed the glass back to Jesse. Jesse filled it again.

"Company," he said. Sigurd took the shot glass, absently.

"Did Billy find you?"

"Yeah, what's up with sendin' him to me? You know the kid don't like me."

"He adores you, Jesiah, despite himself; but you're a lousy father figure."

"I'm a terrific father, what are you talkin' about?"

"I didn't say you're a bad father," Sigurd sighed. "Just not much of a role model."

"He turned out right, anyway," Jesse grumbled. "Drink your whiskey."

Sigurd shut his book. "If your plan is to get me drunk so you can sleep with me, let me disabuse you of the notion. You needn't get me drunk."

"You're fun when you drink."

"And not, when I'm sober?"

"You yell more, when you're drunk." Jesse leered.

"You're a real bastard, have I ever told you that?"

"Every night. C'mere, lemme help you out of those."

"Have you washed today?"

"First thing this morning. You were there. Hey, wha—?" 

Sigurd planted a foot on his behind, pushed him off the bed. "Into the shower. You reek."

"Hell, Sig—"

"Shower. Now."

He watched Jesse drag himself to the shower, admired him as he stalked back, clean and smelling of soap and faintly of tobacco and gunpowder. He lay back as Jesse climbed on the bed, squirmed as Jesse licked his way up his body to catch Sigurd's navel ring in his teeth. He tried not to cry out, refused to give Jesse the satisfaction, but could not be silent when the gunman pulled at each nerve, manipulated him like an expert puppeteer, until he pleaded for release. He moved eagerly beneath his friend's powerful body, stroked the scars Jesse had come by so honestly, gave him a few more to show off, and shivered pleasantly as their bodies cooled together afterward. 

"Mind if I stay here the night?" Jesse asked, with a yawn.

"Not at all." With his toes he caught a blanket and pulled it over them both, and they drifted comfortably to sleep.

* * *

Billy tucked the length of the sheet under the mattress on the upper bunk, fussed with it to get it straight, and stepped back to examine his work. Outside his cabin, voices hummed; people were already gathering, eager.

He sighed, steeled himself.

He peered 'round the door, looked at the crowd in the corridor; the crew members fell silent, and watched him. "Good morning," he said. "Come in, one at a time, whenever you're ready." He ducked back inside, climbed into the bunk to sit behind the sheet, and waited. Someone shuffled in, knelt on the pillow he'd put on the floor to serve as a kneeler, and a soft and penitent voice began confession.

* * *

He had lost track of time, lost track of the number of people who had come in; more than once he'd dozed off between confessions. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn, and suddenly noticed that no one had come into the room for several minutes. He sat up just as the cabin door opened once more; he settled back again and waited.

The sheet was shoved aside. Startled, Billy opened his mouth to protest; Bart stood there, solemn. "You're not supposed to do it that way," Billy explained, quietly. "The curtain—"

"I'm not here for confession," Bart said, and sat on the bed. The sheet fell behind him. "I don't believe the same things you do, anyway."

"Then you should let the others—"

"There's no one else out there," Bart said. "It's suppertime. I'll bet you haven't eaten anything all day."

"I"m not hungry."

"You gotta eat somethin'."

"Maybe later."

"Promise?"

"I don't need you to be my mother, Bart."

"Then what do you need me to be?" Bart grinned, flashed sharp teeth.

"Go away," Billy sighed. He slid to lie on the bed, stretched out, then curled up on his side. Sobering, Bart moved to lie facing him. 

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't look fine."

"I'm just tired." He closed his eyes against the hot pinpricks that peppered his scalp. Cool fingers slid through his hair, gently massaged away the tension. Billy looked up, surprised. "What are you doing?"

"You did a good thing today," Bart said, softly. His fingertips moved slow, soothing circles, somehow found all the right spots, doused the heat. 

"Did I?" He closed his eyes again.

"Why would you think otherwise?"

"Perpetuating a falsehood doesn't strike me as a good thing."

"Ever lied to any of your kids?"

"No."

"Never? Never let 'em believe in fairies and goblins and little elves that leave 'em presents while they sleep?"

"That's different."

"How is it different? They believe in these things, and you keep 'em believin' it, by not tellin' 'em otherwise. And they're happy for it."

"Point taken." He sighed again, relaxed as Bart smoothed away his headache. "I just don't want to have to lie for the rest of my life. Not to adults who should be able to think for themselves."

"Wasn't so long ago you believed just like they do, Billy. 'S'not so simple as you're tryin' to make it out to be."

"And what do you know of it?"

"Only what I hear from everyone else. I had the religion beaten out of me a long time ago." Bart's small smile did not belie the truth behind his jest. "I talk to Sig, you know. About everything."

"And?"

"And when I ask his advice, nine times out of ten he makes me figure things out for myself."

"I've been on the receiving end of that."

"So, thinkin' about religion, maybe I got a lot of twisted ideas about it, I dunno. But, you know—I could see what it meant to the crew, when they found out a priest was on board. I listened to 'em talkin' about it. Suddenly, they got hope for themselves. They know they got absolution, through you. They know everything's okay, no matter what happens to us, even if we never get back to Aveh. And even though I don't believe in that sh—" He flushed, slightly. "That stuff, I see it's good for them, and so it's a good thing, to my way of thinkin'."

Billy looked into the single blue eye, one half of the Fatima Jasper, inheritence of a long bloodline, and despite himself, he smiled. "You do have some twisted ideas, Bart."

"I know."

"Maybe you don't know about gods and goddesses, but you know people."

"Maybe."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For helping."

"I didn't do nothin'."

"More than you know." He leaned up, kissed Bart's mouth, gently. One muscled arm tucked around his waist, pulled Billy closer, and Bart deepened the kiss; Billy relaxed, did not fight it, let Bart push him down and arrange his body to his own liking, sank his teeth into Bart's scarred shoulder to stifle his own shouts when Bart's fingers mouth hips drove him beyond speaking religious niceties and afterward he clung to Bart's sun-splashed body and tried to catch his breath.

"Sorry," Bart panted, in the aftermath. "Sorry, sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" He licked the blood from Bart's shoulder, healed the wound with a small spell.

"I didn't come in here for that. I just wanted to check on you. Sorry."

"Don't be."

"You do that to me, you know. You're all so pure and self-righteous it just makes me wanna—"

"You do know how to sweet-talk a person."

"Sorry."

"Shut up, Bart. Here, get that blanket, I'm getting cold."

"You know you might be able to convert me, if you keep doin' that." Bart grabbed the blanket, drew it over both of them.

"Doing what?"

"Yellin' out holy things when you come."

"You are repugnantly vulgar."

"I'm gonna go get you some supper, 'kay?"

"You needn't do that."

"Well, I'd ask you just to go with me, but when you're all flushed like that, I might not be able to keep things discreet like I promised." Bart grinned, wicked. "Plus, the way you smell after sex would—"

"Drop dead."

Bart laughed. "Be right back."

"Get me some of those little yellow cakes they make, if there are any."

"You got it, Father."

"Don't call me that, it's creepy."

"Everyone else calls you that."

"It's creepy, coming from you."

"Yellow cakes it is."

He dozed while waiting for Bart to return.


End file.
